


Lissoms

by slexenskee (Sambomaster)



Series: HOME / [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 03:05:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14369541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sambomaster/pseuds/slexenskee
Summary: Meanwhile, Harry and Voldemort have a lot of sex. But none of that is in this story, because this story is about Voldemort being the emotionally stunted goober he is.Companion Voldemort!POV wip to Nevermind the End





	Lissoms

**Author's Note:**

> Uhh so I’m sorry I’m such a shit and never reply to comments. I usually try to do them all in bulk but then there are some that are like months or years old and I’m like, ‘wait is that weird if I reply now, 2 years later lol?’ But I do read them and even save some for days when I feel like I have zero talent and no motivation. So this is kind of my apology? Or I guess my way of saying I appreciate it. Yeah, so I really appreciate it: to show my endless gratitude here’s a Voldemort POV and more porn.
> 
> (Actually there isn’t really any porn in this wtf is wrong with me)

_So this all just came out as word vomit, much like the OG story, so I apologize for all the grammatical errors and silly spelling errors. Honestly what I should be doing is going through Nevermind the End and fixing all my appalling and glaring errors. But there are a lot of things I should be doing rn, like my tax returns or going to home depot, and I’m not doing those either._

_xxxx_

 

Everything had been perfect.

 

Harry was perfect, I should say. He was exactly how I wanted him to be, so wonderfully submissive and obedient, and so exceptionally beautiful he had the appearance of a doll. Oh, how pleased I was with him. My lovely little horcrux, a slave to my commands. Everything I wanted, he would provide. I was utterly enamored with him and those bewitching green eyes, I admit there was a time I perhaps lost sight of myself, ensnared in the perfection that was my horcrux.

 

My horcrux, my slave, my flawless marionette to obey all of my commands. Harry would do anything I wanted, and I was never short an experiment I wanted to try on him. There was nothing I loved more than dominating him; I craved his submission like nothing else. And he submitted to my every whim; he crawled into my lap and sheathed my cock inside him without any prompting; he said ‘yes, master’ or ‘no, master’ to anything I asked of him. I could bend him over my desk and tie him there and fuck him until he was a screaming mess; I could suspend him from the ceiling in chains, have him collared and leashed and kneeling beside the bed—Harry would do anything without a hint of disobedience.

 

And I had been more than satisfied with that. Harry’s obedience was exactly what I craved, I could want for nothing else.

 

Until, of course, that fateful experiment gone awry.

 

I had always thought that Harry would look especially beautiful with a swollen, heavily pregnant belly. I had entertained the idea, and found it alluring. And there was no reason not to try it, considering how much I enjoyed the act of impregnation already. However, I could not find a male pregnancy potion to suit my needs—they all required love as the basic component for their effectiveness, a fact which disgusted and appalled me. Surely that was not the case. There had to be alternatives.

 

Despite lacking in the key ingredient, I gave it to him anyway. It started out perfectly; the naked fear in his eyes when he awoke on the dungeon floor and realized what I had done was all that was needed to excite me. I could smell it in the air as I loomed over him, as he begged me over and over to let him go.

 

But it was only then that I realized why I was so enthralled with his fear—it was a novelty. Something I hadn’t seen in a long time. I hadn’t realized I had lost it until that moment; I hadn’t realized that Harry no longer feared me. Harry did not fear me; Harry did not hate me. He didn’t stare at me with defiance and anger as he shouted at me to go to hell. I had forgotten how intoxicating it was to turn that anger and hate into fear and defeat.

 

Where had that Harry gone? Where was the boy who literally spat in my face and told me to go throw myself off a bridge? But this just brought me back to the situation at hand, with Harry a sobbing, shivering mess beneath me, begging and pleading for me not to do this. The thought makes me angry enough that I finish inside him regardless of his cries, leaving him in his cell so I can take my anger out in a productive manner.

 

I know exactly what happened to that Harry, and the thought only makes me angrier.

 

I had destroyed him—I had ruined that defiant, willful and spirited boy and I had enjoyed every single minute of it. All that was left was this empty doll in place of him, a soulless, walking corpse of a boy, so flawless and so beautiful and yet so cold and _empty_. Harry didn't fear me; Harry didn't hate me; Harry feels nothing.

 

As I took my rage out on the other prisoners, and onwards onto my followers, I plotted and schemed ways to get my horcrux back to the way I wanted him. Unfortunately, I did not get very far in any of my plans. Harry was dead. Nothing short of freeing him could revive him, and that was never going to happen.

 

I decided to push aside this revelation in favor of continuing my latest experiment. My constant attempts to impregnate the boy would at least hold my attention enough for me to forget the realization that I was unsatisfied.

 

Perhaps I could have found fulfillment in Harry once again after that, but my experiments would not let me forget.

 

When it became clear love was indeed the missing ingredient to my potion, I schemed ways around it. A love potion would be the easiest and most straightforward, so I wasted no time in having Harry ingest one.

 

The results were… not at all what I expected.

 

First off, the solution failed spectacularly. The next day, Harry was just as not-pregnant as he had been the day before. But in the aftermath of that failure was an unattainable reality; a reality where Harry loved me. The idea of it had never even crossed my mind. I despised love, why would I want anyone to show such disgusting affection to me? And yet, having Harry beneath me like that shed a light on me I hadn’t realized existed—a reality I hadn’t realized I even wanted until that moment.

 

It was the insurmountable problem and the ultimate solution all wrapped up in one stupid, useless emotion.

 

If Harry loved me, he would voluntarily submit to me. I wouldn’t have to break him to get him to submit, he would do it all on his own. Because he wanted to. Because he _loved_ me.

 

It was perfect.

 

Perfect—but absolutely impossible.

 

Yes, I could continue to feed him love potions, but the end result would be identical to the current Harry; submissive, obedient, and utterly lifeless. For I knew I wouldn’t be able to stomach Harry’s affections knowing full well they would disappear if I didn’t feed him another potion within twenty-four hours. I didn’t want lifeless—I no longer wanted a mindless slave, I wanted a human.

 

I wanted Harry.

 

But Harry was gone.

 

At that point I didn’t want to even have to look at the boy. I couldn’t stomach the revolting emptiness I would find in his dull, hollowed eyes.

 

I left the boy to his own devices, whatever the hell those might be. I had no interest in his existence outside of the time I had with him—time I had coveted. For these past two years I couldn’t wait to have him to myself for the rest of his life, but now the thought seemed to sour. But at any rate, I had overlooked this in favor of my domination of the boy—it wasn’t until I brutally legitimized Draco Malfoy to see his progress with the Vanishing Cabinet that I realized what I had overlooked.

 

For there was Harry, just as I remembered him, living inside the blonde’s memory. The blonde had triggered him somehow, and then suddenly he was insulting everything from the state of Draco’s hair to the state of his parent’s marriage, with such a scathing tongue the blonde was almost in tears. He laughed with his friends in the Great Hall, he had charismatic apologies for his teachers whenever he was late. He never wasted an opportunity to drive Severus up the wall, and best of all he had no filter when it came to insulting Dumbledore. He was _alive_ . The hollow shell became fleshed out into a boy with life and spirit and witty remarks and _dreams._ This boy wasn’t a possession, he was a person.

 

First there was relief, and after that the same frustration and helplessness as before.

 

So Harry was not as dead as I had thought. So maybe I hadn’t actually broken the boy into irreparable pieces. All the same Harry was dead to _me_. I wouldn’t delude myself into thinking I could change the relationship I had—willingly—made for us. Harry was my possession, my pet, my horcrux. And the realization that I had not actually broken him at all both invigorated and angered me. I was… pleased, and yet, disappointed and impotently furious all the same. It didn’t actually matter if Harry was alive with his friends, he was still broken with me.

 

In the end, I had assumed this was simply a truth I would have to live with, in the same way I had made terms with the unrealistic and impossible reality of Harry being in love with me, Harry being willingly pregnant, Harry turning around and smiling at me, with bright and beautiful eyes.

 

And then he _talked_. To me.

 

There was a bite to his tone that made me see the path I needed to take. Harry was only as submissive as I was dominant; without instruction, Harry would not know what to do. And when he didn’t know what to do, he had to use his own judgment to proceed. He had to _think,_ again. Unfortunately, Harry was smart. Despite the freedom to make his own decisions, he would never make a decision he thought would displease me. Even if I was no longer commanding him I had ingrained a set of behaviors that couldn’t be erased. Behaviors that I would have applauded earlier, but were now only irritating setbacks and glaring reminders of my lack of progress.

 

And the more I managed to pry out from him, the more I began to understand the insurmountable odds against me. It was impossible. There was already too much damage; attempting to reconcile my relationship with Harry in any manner at all would never yield the results I wanted. This did not stop me from trying anyhow. It was all so bittersweet, the elation when I managed to get him to do something of his own free will, the resulting crash of anger and frustration when I was once again thwarted by my own past actions. The mixed signals were impossible to discern; was he truly doing this because he wanted to, or because he was once again acting upon what he thought I wanted from him? He said he wanted to please me, that he would give me anything I wanted. But those words were as empty as the rest of him. The only thing that would truly please Harry would be my untimely death by impalement on a unicorn horn, or perhaps it was an eternity being burned at the stake? I can no longer recall what he wanted of me, back when he had no qualms in announcing his true feelings.

 

Eventually though I knew I had to cut my losses.

 

It wasn’t so much as remorse as it was resignation; I had completely ruined Harry, so now I was returning him the way one returned any object that had outlived its usefulness. As if he was a possession with as much character and humanity as a piece of furniture. It was callous and cruel, but that was no surprise. There was maybe a small part of me that was consoled by the fact that I knew Harry would be happy. Harry would be free again. And as another consolation prize, I would finally reclaim ownership of that damned ring Dumbledore has been dangling in front of me for months. If anything, this was a strategic move on my part. Harry was a distraction, and I had known he would be even as I gambled away the mudbloods in exchange for him. Without him, I would have a clear mind to focus on the war. There would be no more distractions.

 

Of course, Harry had other ideas.

 

I don’t know what I had expected of the confrontation. There was genuine fear in his eyes, but I had grown tired of fear. If I wanted fear all I had to do was face the sea of my followers and enemies, both of whom cowered at the mere idea of me. There was more than that too though, but I didn’t know what it was. There were tears, of course, but I had grown tired of those too. These days they only served to remind me that Harry hated me, and I most likely would never be able to get him to feel anything else.

 

I had thought that would be the end of it, but then he turned around and threw my own scroll clear across the office, and proceeded to tell me I was the worst thing to ever grace the face of the Earth. Neither reaction was much of a surprise, but then he shocked me into incomprehension. He said he didn’t want to live without me. He hated me, which made perfect sense, but refused to let me go, which made no sense at all. Then he kissed me, which was more than enough to derail my thoughts to more pleasurable avenues.

 

I’m distracted for a moment (he’s very good at doing that) but eventually come to my senses before I can do any irreversible damage to the situation. I had a lot to reevaluate, and I didn’t want to lose my chance to do so just because I couldn’t control my own base urges.

 

He doesn’t have to do this, and I tell him so.

 

“I know,” he says, shakily, before cutting himself off. He swallows. “But, I…” He cuts himself off, again, in a way that is completely foreign to me. Foreign, because it is genuine and vulnerable, and I’ve never seen Harry look so… exposed. So open.

 

“I want to,” he finally manages to get out, reluctantly raising his eyes towards me. His expression is an entanglement of contradicting emotions, that seems to fit very well with this contradicting situation. He looks very much so afraid, but determined all the same.

 

“I want to,” he repeats. He manages to hold my gaze as he asks: “Isn’t that enough?”

 

I’ve never been able to control myself around him on the best of days, and I certainly can’t now. Especially not when he looks at me with those beautiful eyes and _asks._

 

The whole thing is beyond my expectations, beyond imagination, and well beyond anything a love potion can possibly conjure up. I realize it is so incredible because it is _real._ This is not Harry trying to please me because he thinks it’s what I want, not at all. I can tell that he really does want this, because he’s as shy as a virgin and just as uncoordinated as one too. It is new and uncharted territory for both of us, and somehow that makes it all the more rewarding.

 

I wonder what he sees, when he looks at me. I know he’s feeling something, because I know his look of indifference and this isn’t it. Whatever it is though, I cannot comprehend it, but those viridian eyes are all but alight with emotion, open for all to see.

 

Then that window is gone, as he shuts his eyes and tosses his head back. I surge into him slowly, and it seems to be exactly what he wants. “ _Tom_ ,” he gasps my name, as he arches his back into my next thrust. “Tom, please, oh—

 

Moaning my name and begging? Is he trying to ruin me?

 

“Tell me what you want, Harry,” I urge him, because I want to hear more.

 

He doesn’t reply at first, but I allow him this small grievance because it appears he has lost himself in pleasure, and it is a wonderful sight. He scrunches his brows in an attempt at concentration. “I don’t know,” he finally gets out, gaze unfocused. “But just— fuck— don’t stop…”

 

That is an easy enough command to follow. This is vastly different than our usual sex, but I find I enjoy it nonetheless. Mainly because Harry is so obviously enjoying it. He seems to unravel more and more with every shallow thrust I give him; just the barest tilt of my hips has him crying out in pleasure.

 

I lean over him, adjusting the angle just so, making him cry out again. This time his eyes flutter open, and his gaze when he meets mine is so intense it seems to look directly into my soul.

 

Whatever he finds there seems to surprise him. “Tom,” he says, and I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of hearing that.

 

And then, something very strange and extraordinary happens.

 

Harry smiles.

 

He pushes up on his hands to place the purest, most innocent kiss I’ve ever received to the corner of my mouth. “ _Tom_ ,” he whispers again, and some part of me realizes this will be my undoing.

 

He pulls away, but the smile is still there. It is softer now, almost shy. I have never seen this sight before, and it catches me by surprise. Harry is already quite beautiful, but somehow even more so when he smiles. He has dimples, I realize with shock. They’re subtle, but certainly there; one on each side. It’s just a smile, but it makes all the thoughts fly out of my head. No one— no one ever smiles at me like that. Of course they don’t, I am the dark lord for a reason. I have no need for smiles from my followers, or any kind of useless affirmations of happiness. I have no need, and yet this one captivates me anyway.

 

An overwhelming surge of _want_ rushes through me at the sight of it. It is a most curious response, because I have not felt this possessed in my life, expect perhaps during my hunt for immortality. I am seized by the uncontrollable desire to own it, somehow, to claim it as my own.

 

This is impossible, but I try anyhow, claiming his lips and taking the smile with it.

 

The movement knocks Harry off balance, his arms giving out from under him and sending us both toppling onto the desk. The boy lets out a sharp gasp of pleasure, and then he is coming from the feel of my cock inside him alone, and that thought is enough to propel me to my own release.

 

As the lust leaves me, I am once again full of nothing but perplexed confusion over everything that has just happened.

 

Then Harry laughs, confusing me even further. “What?” I ask, as I rather unwillingly move to get off him.

 

He just keeps laughing.

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Nothing,” he replies, all but giggling. “It’s just— we just had sex on the desk of every headmaster to ever teach at Hogwarts.” He points out, sounding wicked and amused.

 

He’s right though. And it is rather amusing. “They’ll never have to know.” I assure him, darkly. It can be our little secret. I like the thought of that, actually.

 

But his comment does serve to remind me of where we are right now. I wave my wand to clothe and clean us both; the Headmaster might catch on to our secret if we both walk out without any clothes, smelling like sex. I’m surprised to find that Harry hasn’t moved away from me. He usually gets as far away from me as possible the moment he can. Actually, he is still pressed up against my chest.

 

“The contract,” he says, hesitantly. I look down at the mop of unruly hair, leaning against me. “What are you…” From this angle, it is impossible to tell what he’s thinking. “Are you— do you want me to sign it?”

 

I consider him carefully, before ultimately deciding I can’t answer until I know what he’s thinking. I gently lift his face from its hiding place. “Do you to?” I ask in response.

 

His expression looks somehow sweet but sorrowful. “No.” He replies, quiet but honest.

 

Somehow, despite his affirmation it doesn’t feel like much of a surrender.

 

xxxx

 

PART 2

 

So the reality I had dismissed as impossible and unrealistic seems to have more merit than I had first thought.

 

I still have no idea _why_ that is, though.

 

Why in Merlin’s name would the boy choose to stay? I wonder if it’s pointless to even deliberate on the matter; it appears Harry never makes any sense. I suppose I should just accept the fact that I will never be able to guess his next move. I cannot read him and break down his motivations as I can everyone else, and he has learned how to block his mind from me over the course of his stay with me so I can no longer use Legilimency.  Unfortunately, it appears the only way I will ever have insight into his mind is if I ask. Assuming, of course, he will actually answer.

 

He might, if I ask him now.

 

Harry has been strangely docile and complacent all week, ever since we chose not to take the new contract. This behavior would worry me, since it is disturbingly similar to his mannerisms when he would all but cut himself off from the outside world, if not for the look in his eyes. They are bright and contemplative, and seem to be observing me very carefully.  

 

It is the weekend and I have not ordered him to stay, and yet he stayed anyway. He even joined me for breakfast, which he never does. And when I pulled him into my lap before he could even think to reach for a chair, he seemed surprised but not resistant. He hasn’t actually spoken to me, at all, but he does seem to be enjoying it. Or at least, he doesn’t seem to actively dislike it; he darts up from where he’s been leaning on my chest to steal a piece of fruit from me. When he turns back around to look at me there is an impish, cheeky smile on his face. It falls a little as he gazes at me, a hesitant look growing in its place. That won’t do. I skewer another slice of fruit, holding it out to him. Surprisingly, he eats it.

 

Harry is just full of surprises today.

 

First, he broke his silence and talked. He still won’t talk unless I prompt him, but that he is replying with genuine thought at all is progress.

 

Then he asked if I would sleep with him. The request was so flooring I complied with it from sheer bewilderment alone. He falls asleep in my arms. I watch him sleep for what seems like hours, so utterly flummoxed I feel fixed to the spot.

 

Harry, the horcrux, had as much personality as a doorknob.

 

Harry, the boy— the real, living person— was turning out to be completely beyond comprehension.

 

The weekend rolls by.

 

Harry returns in the evenings after class, always on time for dinner, even though I don’t ask him to. And he actually eats, now. Not much more than he had before, but I’ve noticed he just seems to have a small appetite. Definitely not enough for a growing boy; no wonder he’s so damn small. He doesn’t like wine, but will ask the elves for all sorts of ridiculous juices. They know him so well they surprise him with different fruits mixed together. He’s picky with his meats, but will eat any fish or vegetable put in front of him. He stares longingly at the desserts, but never takes more than one macaron.

 

These are all such useless and insignificant details to know about a person, but to see Harry actually make decisions and show his real opinions on things is so new and foreign it’s a novelty I don’t think will ever wear off.

 

He misses dinner just once, but that’s just as well as I already had dinner planned with some of my favored followers. It is always such an easy way to manipulate them; those who are invited clearly hold my favor. They are the top of the hierarchy. For those who aren’t invited or worse, are _un_ invited, this sends a telling message. This is Lucius’ first dinner in months, but that is no surprise. I am displeased with the Malfoy family, and that is no secret. Severus has had a spot all year, but I have begun considering whether perhaps he no longer deserves it.

 

It may be the same meal, but the atmosphere couldn’t be more different. This is as much a table as it is a battlefield, with my followers eying each other up and debating how to carefully use their words as both offense and defense, and deciding how best to please me and cull my favor. I, of course, merely watch them all with a glass of wine in hand, carefully observing their every movement, as any great predator should. They are but dispensable prey, after all. The thought makes my mind wander; what is Harry, then? Dispensable prey, or something else?

 

In contrast dinners with Harry are quiet but oddly calming. Harry is not a Slytherin, so he does not watch each and every movement to dissect weaknesses to exploit. Whatever sparse words we exchange are not meant to attack or manipulate. Dinner with Harry is not a battlefield, it is just dinner. Sharing a meal as humans have done for centuries. Upon further deliberation, I suppose this is exactly what I wanted when I had commanded the boy to dine with me in the first place.

 

Dinner with Harry is also not nearly as exhausting, or irritating.

 

I am never in a charitable mood after a dinner with my followers, and tonight is no exception.

 

When I retire to my rooms Harry is already there, asleep on the side of the bed that at some point has become his. This isn’t surprising, it _is_ rather late and the boy has school tomorrow. Hopefully adequate rest and nutrition will do something to improve his grades; I can’t keep doing his Transfiguration homework forever.

 

Harry makes a low whimper, causing me to look over with a frown. Perhaps the light from the dressing room is disturbing him. With an absent wave of my hand I turn it off and continue to search the adjoining library for the text I’m looking for. It’s a book on Celtic warding, which will serve me well for dismantling and controlling certain older wards in Britain. Namely, Hogwarts and the Ministry. Harry makes another noise, almost as if in pain. I find the book and levitate it off the high shelf and into my hand, before walking over towards him in concern.

 

When I reach him I can see there is something amiss. His breath is coming out in short heaves; his cheeks are red and wet with tears.

 

The boy is having a nightmare. I feel numb, hand pausing before it can make contact with him.

 

An odd disquiet settles within me, as I sit on the bed beside him and watch him.

 

I should wake him, if only to stop the dreams. But I don’t think I would be someone he’d want to see upon awakening, given the situation. I can imagine what he’s dreaming of— _who_ he’s dreaming of. It’s not that difficult to guess.

 

I am again lost in the contradicting, complex labyrinth that is Harry Potter.

 

Why would he choose to stay with the man who haunts his nightmares? Tears leak out from beneath wet lashes; the longer I wait to wake him the more time he will spend in pain. And yet, I find myself so confounded I don’t have the presence of mind to do so. It was only last night that he turned around in my arms and kissed me. It was the first time he’d kissed me like that; in bed in the dark of night, purely of his own volition. He didn’t seem interested in going any farther, but that was more than enough. But why did he do that? Why would he even want to?

 

I touch his shoulder, gently. With a brief squeeze, his eyes fly open and he sucks in a long breath. He blinks a few times, looking out of sorts. Then he sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Sorry, was I shouting again?” He apologizes, as if he has anything to apologize for.

 

“No,” I reply, after a moment of brief hesitation.

 

“Oh.” He sniffs, and blinks some more. More than anything, he just looks annoyed and exasperated. “Did I wake you?”

 

“No,” I repeat, unwilling to elaborate. “Go back to sleep, Harry.”

 

He’ll probably have better chances of that if I’m not in the room. On that note, there are blueprints of Ministry wards I should look over, now that I’ve found the book. I move to get up and leave the room, but his hand stretches out to cover mine before I can get very far. The boy sits up, leaning forward to rest his forehead against my shoulder.

 

“You don’t have to go,” he says, quietly. I wonder who he’s trying to fool here.

 

The silence in the interim is as thick and dark as the night around us. I debate the most tactful way to say this.

 

“What were you dreaming of, Harry?”

 

Like clockwork, the boy seizes up. His body stiffens and he curls in on himself— a fight or flight response to protect himself. And then, because he is a boy who makes absolutely no sense, he lies; “I don’t remember.” And squeezes my hand, as if to ask me to stay.

 

I sigh heavily. This is getting us nowhere. As gently as possible I remove my hand from his grip. “I think perhaps it would be better if I left you to your rest.” I reply, and this time I don’t give him time to try to pull me back.

 

The manor halls are cold and silent as I descend to one of the vast drawing rooms on the main floor. Already the fruits of my efforts are laid out on the long table stretching the length of the room. I return to where I left off; I split the spine of the book and begin to transcribe the runes before me.

 

Impressively enough I manage to thoroughly distract myself from all thoughts of the boy. This is temporary, of course, but at least for now I am fully engrossed in the fascinating and complex rune work of the ancient Druids.

 

That is, until Harry decides to barrel his way back into my thoughts.

 

The door slams open.

 

I look up in surprise. First of all, it is very late. Secondly, none of my followers are rude enough or stupid enough to barge in like this. On that note, none of them dress like this either.

 

“Tom,” he says.

 

I’m so stunned I just incline my head in greeting. “Harry.” I reply.

 

I first note that he is completely barefoot; he must be freezing, from having to walk the cold marble halls. As he strides over to me, my eyes lift upwards to his bare legs, and then further, to the shirt that is just passably covering him. It’s my shirt, I note in surprise. And it’s buttoned poorly, and may also be inside out. This is clearly not the time or place, but I can’t help but note he looks delectable with his hair even wilder than usual, wearing my clothes, looking thoroughly debauched even though we’ve done nothing of the sort. Then I frown. Was he really walking the halls like this? And for how long? The manor is enormous, how did he even find me?

 

He reaches where I’m standing, an oddly defiant look to his face.

 

Then he attacks me.

 

I don’t know what else to call it. His arms wrap around me, probably as tightly as he can manage, with a surprising ferocity. I look down at his feathery head with something akin to incredulity. What is with this boy and spontaneous hugging?

 

“It’s not what you think,” he says, voice muffled.

 

We both know exactly what he’s referring to. I sigh warily, and one of my traitorous hands moves on its own to run my fingers through his tousled hair.

 

“I don’t need an explanation, Harry.”

 

(I don’t _deserve_ an explanation.)

 

Harry says nothing for a moment. Finally, his head lifts from my chest. “Then can I have one instead?” He asks. This is clearly a rhetorical question, because he continues before I can answer. “Why did you leave?”

 

Why is he asking this? He can’t be that dense.

 

His hands are cold when they touch my face, as he leans up on his tiptoes to draw us closer. “Tom,” he says, soft and warm. My eyes close briefly as his warm breath fans over my face, hands tightening around him. He presses us closer, so close I can feel his lips against my ear. “I want you to come back,” he breathes, quiet, like a secret.

 

He pulls away then, not enough to leave my arms, but enough to search my expression. His own expression looks almost hopeful. “...Will you?” He asks.

 

Well after such a well executed manipulation, how am I to say no? How very Slytherin of him. Murmuring my name as his lips brush mine, whispering in my ear and staring at me with big, hopeful eyes; I wonder if he does it on purpose, or honestly has no idea he’s even doing it.

 

I don’t know why he clings to me like this, in the same way I don’t know what he wants me to do.

 

He presses himself against me as we lay in the bed, almost as if he’s hiding from the rest of the world. I feel as if it should be the opposite; running to the world to hide from _me_. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move either, and doesn’t seem inclined to do so any time soon.

 

“I never remember my dreams,” he confesses, after so long I had assumed he had fallen asleep.

 

There is another endlessly long pause. So long I would again assume he had fallen asleep. This time is different though; he feels tense, his shoulders stiff as he seems to pull himself inward. “But I… It doesn’t really matter anyway.” He adds, finally. “They’re all the same anyway.”

 

Why is he telling me this?

 

Perhaps it gives him closure or catharsis of some kind. I wouldn’t think so, though, from the rigid way he holds himself. He seems… scared. No, he seems terrified. And why wouldn’t he be? He has every reason to be terrified of me— every reason to hate me. More reason than most. Another long spell of silence passes us by. His words take so long to come out, and are so quiet that I almost miss them. As it is it takes a few seconds for them to register.

 

“My Uncle…” he whispers, and it’s as if just saying that has already sapped him of all the strength and courage he has left.

 

I pull him closer into the circle of my arms, blinking into the dark. I frown deeply; he doesn’t see it, preferring to hide himself against my chest, so he also doesn’t see the the fiery look of vesuvian anger that follows it.

 

His Uncle. Is that so? I know next to nothing about his home, now that I think about it. I’m aware he lived with his Aunt and Uncle. I’ll have Severus look into that as soon as possible. Either way he will not be among the living for long. If he even _dared_ to touch what is mine…

 

“It’s not you,” his voice surprises me out of my thoughts. “It was never you.”

 

This is enough to distract me and cool my volcanic rage— at least for now.

 

“So you, um, don’t have to leave.” He adds, awkwardly.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

If there is a new muggle in the dungeons, well, there’s no reason Harry has to know of it.

 

That fat whale of a man was incredibly informative, singing like a bird after just a few measly severing curses. He wouldn’t have even lasted the hour if I hadn’t wasted healing potions on him to keep him alive enough to bleed out over the floor. Alas, I am nowhere near done with him yet.

 

At any rate, I watch Harry very carefully over the next few weeks.

 

There are no outward sides of trauma, but then, Harry has always been good at carefully keeping himself protected behind glass castles in his mind, hasn’t he? I always wondered how he managed to create such complex and exceptional mental defenses when Severus had told me of his spectacularly awful occlumency lessons. Now I know; he must have learned that from a very young age. Only time and necessity could create such an impenetrable fortress. Many things have come to make sense with this new information.

 

It’s clear that no one has told him of the disappearance of his uncle. I had considered just taking them all, but in a stroke of surprising foresight it occured to me that Harry might not approve of me torturing and murdering the remainder of his family, what with already murdering most of it. After brutally tearing through their minds I deemed the crimes of the other two small enough that I would leave Harry to decide what he wanted to do with them. His uncle, however, was a subject not up to debate. It is entirely unreasonable and hypocritical of me to cast judgment on his crimes, considering the extent of my own, but I have never been fair or merciful in any sense of the word. As far as I’m concerned, my judgment _is_ law. Just thinking of it is enough to incite my ire to the point I have to release it on whatever poor unfortunate Death Eater was foolish enough to fail me today.

 

I rarely let him leave my sight now. I was never fond of having him far from me before, but now, unless he is in the safety of his school I refuse to let him out of my sight. I hadn’t bothered to do it before, but now I make sure to lock the doors to my rooms under multiple wards. That brainless boy was stupid enough to wander the dangerous halls of the manor in nothing but my shirt. Does he not realize what any of my followers would have done to him had they stumbled upon him?

 

For someone who has been through some of the worst humanity has to offer, he is foolishly naive. And forgiving to a fault. I refuse to let anyone take advantage of that— anyone but me, that is.

 

If the boy has noticed any change in my behavior, he doesn’t speak of it. He doesn’t speak of much, at all, actually.

 

Though I know there are thoughts in that head, and emotions that flicker behind those eyes, I have no insight into what they might be. I suppose I should be comforted by the fact I can confirm their existence at all; for a very long time, it was easy to believe there was absolutely nothing behind his eyes. That I had managed to snuff them all out.

 

As it is I’ve taken to systematically and meticulously categorizing his every small move, knowing they reveal far more about him than he most likely realizes.

 

For the longest time Harry didn’t seem to give much thought to anything, and I couldn’t care less if he did. As long as he was obeying me, he could think however much— or however little— he wanted. He had no preferences or opinions; if I threw him onto the right side of the bed, that was where he would remain unless told otherwise. Whatever food I placed in front of him on the off chance I even felt like feeding him, he ate. I prefer him naked, so he never wore any clothes. He drank whatever I told him to, moved whenever I told him to, and basically existed only when I commanded him to do so.

 

Now that I am not, little bits of himself have started to unravel in small but not insignificant ways.

 

Unsurprisingly he doesn’t actually like being naked, at all. In fact he prefers to be as fully clothed as possible, at all hours of night and day, until only his hands and feet are visible. And even that is a stretch; if he can get away with it, his feet are covered in socks and his hands are easily hidden by long sleeves. He’s an irritatingly picky eater; I have yet to figure out what he actually likes, despite changing the menu every night. He only drinks juice; no wine, no coffee, not even tea. He prefers the left side of the bed, I think because that’s the side that faces the window, but I’ve yet to confirm it. He has a curious sense of humor. He is a boy that exists now, with thoughts and feelings and interests and even occasionally curiosities.

 

I find myself even more captivated by him than I ever have been before.

 

I would prefer to be able to get my hands on him, yes, but merely watching him from a distance has proved to be rewarding in and of itself. His guard has lowered, ever so slightly, and like any good predator I do not let the opportunity go to waste. I am not waiting for the opportune moment to go for the killing strike, however.

 

Oh, I would love to, make no mistake. I want to _ruin_ him, and I always have.

 

Instead, I merely watch him with the sharp, narrow eyes of a beast of prey, as he continues on, wholly oblivious to the danger sitting so close to him. He is the little mouse between the lion’s paws. But the lion has yet to devour him, so the mouse has forgotten the danger and has fallen asleep. His defenseless form is blissfully ignorant as he dreams.

 

At least his dreams are not nightmares.

 

He was unusually tired all evening. His hair was still damp as he sat at the dinner table, skin flushed from steam and warm water, and he was all but falling asleep at the table. By the time he had flopped onto the bed he was dead asleep, leaving me to properly tuck him in before he catches cold.

 

He hasn’t stirred since; I wonder if he realizes how defenseless he is, like this. He probably knows. That doesn’t stop him from returning every night though, being the illogical creature he is.

 

I stroke his hair lightly as he murmurs a bit in his sleep, lost in thought.

 

His whole existence is illogical; human horcruxes should not exist. They should be impossible. The killing curse instantly kills anything it hits, and yet Harry lives on. He should have ran away from me, as all small prey run away from predators; instead he is still here, sleeping in the arms of his most dangerous enemy.

 

I wonder if I will ever understand this curious creature. If I will ever find the center of his soul, the hidden cipher to decode his every thought and action, or if I will forever be peeling back the endless layers he shrouds himself with, never being able to make sense of him.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Harry has many smiles. I hoard them all like valuable treasures; a dragon fiercely guarding its gold.

 

The one he gives me today is full of relief and gratitude— it’s not a particularly big smile, but it is enough to brighten his eyes and crease the hint of one dimple. It is one of true and genuine happiness. Understandable, considering I have told him he can spend his holidays with his insufferable blood traitors. It catches him by complete and conclusive surprise, which only makes his happiness all the more striking.

 

I am unfortunately giving up the opportunity to have Harry for an entire two weeks, both day and night, but it was necessary, and seems to be a calculated move that has returned itself in spades.

 

The boy is delighted, and as an added bonus will be far, far away from the manor once Yule rolls around.

 

I no longer trust my followers with him— in the same way I no longer trust anyone with him. It’s bad enough having him leave for whatever hovel he’s going to visit for the holidays, but it is the lesser of two evils. His ‘family’ will offer him adequate protection, at least for the duration of the holidays. Of course I would do a far better job of it, but once the magic of Yule rises with the waxing winter moon, the likelihood of something happening to him rises with it. Either by my hand, or someone else’s.

 

Better to have him far away from the ‘festivities’ we will all partake in.

 

Harry is relieved, but also unsure what to make of it.

 

It makes him even more cautious than usual, in a way he hasn’t been since the night he smiled at me and said, _“Well, at least you figured it out eventually._ ” He said he didn’t think he could give me what I wanted, but that was also when he thought all I wanted from him was sex. Honestly. How can the boy be this dense? If all I wanted was sex I wouldn’t even bother with the endless frustration and irritation and altogether massive headache that is Harry Potter.

 

I got my point across well enough, I suppose. In the end he seemed satisfied enough not to ask any more questions and seemed to get the answers he wanted, and in return I got a sleepy and surprisingly cuddly Harry, and yet another smile to keep as my own. Two in one night was almost unbelievable.

 

After that he seemed to be in a slightly better mood than usual. It was almost impossible to tell as there were no real outward signs, and yet I got the impression he was more relaxed than usual anyway.

 

His behavior has been oddly hesitant now, where I had assumed he would be at least slightly more ecstatic than usual. If anything, the opposite has happened.

 

He keeps glancing at me with a conflicted expression, as if expecting some kind of reaction from me.

 

By dessert I’m just about fed up with it.

 

“Harry,” I start, distracting him from his longing stare at the utterly ridiculous display of confectionaries the Malfoy house elves have conjured up now.

 

He jumps a little, and then turns towards me. He looks a little wary.

 

I narrow my eyes at him. “What in Merlin’s name is wrong with you?” Which is the closest I’ll ever get to asking if I have done something to upset him.

 

He bites his lip, worrying it with his teeth in a way that is incredibly distracting. “I just... “ He trails off, glancing at me again. “... Is it really okay?”

 

“I would not have suggested it otherwise,” I point out.

 

This seems to mollify him slightly. “So, it’s really okay?” He asks, hesitantly.

 

“Yes.”

 

“ _Really_ okay?”

 

“ _Yes._ ” I reply, exasperated. By Merlin, why is this so difficult for him to understand? I am honestly at a loss; he is being more confusing than usual. “What am I doing to suggest otherwise?”

 

Harry looks down at his lap, wringing his hands in the ends of his jumper. He seems to be having a very heated inner debate with himself. “I just— I don’t want you to be alone for Christmas.” He blurts out, so quickly the words are tangled together.

 

I blink, taking a moment to untangle them and put them in sensible order. I take another moment to double check that I have deciphered them correctly, because they still don’t make any sense. Harry is _concerned_ for me?

 

“I do not celebrate that nonsensical holiday,” I remind him, once I have recovered myself. “And I do not want you anywhere nearby for the Yuletide… _celebrations_.”

 

It is so quick I nearly miss it, but I see the briefest glimpse of hurt flash through his eyes before the opaque veil of impassivity covers it. I once again have to second guess myself; he is hurt that I don’t want him around? Am I reading this correctly? Why would he _want_ to be around, especially for this particular event? Surely he hasn’t forgotten last Yule— I had been… particularly unkind to him. While most of wizarding kind has long forgotten their bloody and sadistic past in favor of the more contemporary Christmas holiday, the purebloods still worship the old ways; ecstatic rites in devotion to magic, sacrificial offerings of virgins, various degrees of cannibalism, sexual rituals  and general debauchery— every dark part of magical society that the Ministry vehemently denies existence of, extrapolated to an excessive degree with the potency of magic during the solstice. At any rate, Harry could not have possibly forgotten.

 

I frown at him. “It was my impression you would prefer to spend the holidays at your own leisure.”

 

“That’s not—” Harry shakes his head rapidly. “I mean, I do, but…” Clearly even he doesn’t understand what’s going on in his own head, because he looks equally as confused as I feel. “Nevermind.” He says instead, pushing away from the table.

 

I watch him leave with nothing short of pure incredulity. I am still in a constant state of awe over him; how can one creature possibly be so mercurial, nonsensical, and illogical? It still humbles me, how impossible he is to understand.

 

I venture into the bedroom soon after that, finding him standing in front of the doors to the closet.

 

I hadn’t realized how many clothes he had here until I witnessed him packing them up into his backpack. It wasn’t even enough to occupy a small sliver of the large dressing room, but all the same it was a noteworthy amount. This was also the first time I had ever witnessed them firsthand; as I usually prefer him without any clothes at all, I never paid them much mind. I withhold a sneer at the sight of them; some garments are so threadbare they look as if they might fall apart with a gentle breeze.

 

Harry does not turn around from where he’s haphazardly attempting to fold a ratty jumper, but he clearly senses me. “It’s really nothing.” He insists, sounding tired and exhausted with the topic already. “Forget I said anything.”

 

If only it was so simple.

 

I let the matter drop though, if only because I too am a bit tired of this nonsense. He leaves the next morning without another word on the subject— or any words at all, for that matter.

 

As agreed, he spends the holidays with his family of redheads, and returns two weeks later in somewhat better spirits.

 

He doesn’t say anything when he returns to me, moving through his nightly routine without much fanfare. Nothing seems to have changed in the two weeks we spent apart; we eat supper together; he sprawls out the fire with his post-holiday assignments, Nagini in tow; and he scuttles off into the bathroom and promptly shuts the door behind him— a nonverbal request for privacy. Some days he leaves it open, not necessarily as an invitation to bathe with him but as a sign he won’t mind if I’m in the same room with him as he does so. I wonder if this signifies some significant change in behavior, or if he merely wants to be alone.

 

He exits the bathroom in a clout of steam and an oversized, fluffy bathrobe, shuffling off into the closet for a change of clothes.

 

He stays in there for a longer amount of time than it takes to change clothing, eventually coming out with a confused frown marring his features, holding a bundle of clothes.

 

“Tom,” he says quietly, drawing my attention away from my current readings.

 

“Yes?” I return, reluctantly tearing my eyes away from a particularly riveting passage on blood-curdling hexes. Harry does not meet my gaze; he is staring down at the fabric in his hands.

 

“... Are these,” he falters briefly, “Are these for me?”

 

Of course. Surely he doesn’t think I could fit into something of that size? “Your  former clothes were in desperate need of retirement.” I reply by way of explanation.

 

He stares at me with wide eyes. “...You bought me clothes?”

 

I meet his gaze blankly. Does he truly not understand the concept of purchasing items for use? He cannot be this dense. “I had them made, yes.” As if I would ever dress my horcrux in anything else but the finest of silks. Truly I should have done this a long time ago. I cannot have something of mine looking so ill-kempt.

 

Harry is still staring at me with that wide-eyed gaze. “You— but… _why_?”

 

He is being remarkably slow tonight. “As I said, your prior clothing was no longer in any condition to be of use.” I reiterate, plainly.

 

His expression does not change. He takes a slight step back, just enough to lean past the door to stare into the closet, no doubt looking at all the other garments in his size, neatly put in order. When he straightens up again, he might even look more confused than he had been before.

 

“You had these made for me.” He repeats, blankly. “You really… you really bought me clothes.”

 

“Have you never purchased clothing before?” I cannot help but ask, in pure bewilderment. Is this concept truly so foreign to him? Perhaps he really hasn’t; from the state of the clothing he normally wears, it appears as if he’s been wearing the same things for years.

 

He flushes brilliantly, suddenly looking perhaps a bit shy. “It’s not that.” He protests quickly. “...I just— no one’s ever bought me clothes before…”

 

Oh.

 

Perhaps that should have been the immediate and obvious conclusion. After all, I do have his uncle repenting for his many sins in my dungeons, so it’s not as if I was unaware of Harry’s past. Those filthy muggles wouldn’t have ever bothered to buy the boy anything, more than likely they just tossed him scraps from their obese offspring to wear, as they did with everything else. And Harry didn’t seem the type to care about what he wears, or ever go through the trouble of procuring new things to wear.

 

“Consider it a Christmas gift, then.” I reply, nonchalantly, closing my book and deciding it’s about time I bathe as well.  

 

I’m glad I did so when I tuck the book under my arm and rise from the chair, just in time to look up and see Harry smiling at me with a soft expression. It’s not one I’ve seen before, so I eagerly drink in the sight. He looks happily surprised, and perhaps a bit fond.

  


Harry is wearing his new set of pajamas when I exit the bathroom. The sleeves are long enough for him to hide his hands if he so wishes to, and I made sure to acquire an endless collection of socks in all colors to replace his former hole-ridden ones; the pair he chose are dark green, and look decidedly Slytherin with the silvery pajamas. The whole ensemble makes him look exceptionally young, which hadn’t been my intention but is… a rather adorable sight nonetheless.

 

He smiles up at me as I near the bed, dimples and all. When I’m close enough he reaches up to pull me down towards him, drawing me into a long, soft kiss.

 

“Thank you,” he says, when he pulls away.

 

I don’t know how to explain to him that he has already thanked me enough. He has given me four gifts of exceptional value over the duration of this holiday season; a smile that was beyond priceless, and worth infinitely more than the ostentatious gifts my followers have lavished upon me; and now one small, almost insignificant kiss.

 

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**Author's Note:**

> Will there be more? It is a WIP so... yes, maybe!


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